


Pullout

by 8sword



Series: Aim to Please [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Dean, Crossover Pairings, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn Without Plot, season 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 10:55:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2426156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/8sword/pseuds/8sword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean steps inside, still in the same tucked-in green shirt and light brown coat. A six-pack of beer hangs from his fingers, one bottle already missing. Dean's silver ring and bracelets are missing, too. Steve misses them the way he misses Bucky's sly smile, and the bump of his shoulder against Steve's, and the old rain-slicked streets of Brooklyn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pullout

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orange_8_hands](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_8_hands/gifts).



> Because apparently orange is responsible for sexually frustrating me on sundays, and loversforlycanthropes has claimed mondays, and steve rogers is on duty EVERY DAY OF THE WEEK
> 
> (It has become apparent that I like Steve Rogers in hipster glasses. I'm sorry…?)
> 
> In my head, this fic takes place after Dean has gone to stay with Lisa and Ben at the end of S5 but he and Lisa have not initiated a sexual relationship yet. Dean is still the unreliable guy sleeping on their couch/guest bed.

 

When Steve finally finds him, it's at a kids' baseball league.

He's standing kitty corner to the catcher's box, watching the game through the chain link fence that guards the dugouts from the crowded stands. It's a cool autumn night in Indiana, and some of the kids out in the field are hopping back and forth on their feet to stay warm.

Steve walks up to where Dean stands in a heavy brown corduroy jacket. His collared shirt is tucked in beneath it, and Steve tries to remember if he ever tucked his shirts in, before.

When he stops beside him, Dean just moves over to give him some room. His eyes are on the game and the dark-haired kid winding up to pitch. It's a full minute before he stiffens, his sharp intake of breath loud in Steve's serum-augmented ears.

Steve lets himself look over. Dean hasn't turned his head, but his eyes are focused on Steve, green and vivid under the field lights. His freckles stand out across his nose; Steve doesn't think he's ever noticed them before and feels a sense of loss. How many things has he missed, he thinks, and feels the same sinking feeling, the water closing over him, the ache of _Bucky._

"Didn't peg you as the stalker type."

Steve pushes his fake glasses up on his nose. "You haven't been answering any of my calls."

"I've never answered any of your calls."

"Yeah, but at least before they rang," Steve says. "Now they go straight to your message box."

"So leave a message."

"I have."

Dean doesn't say anything. He's still staring straight ahead, but Steve doesn't think he's actually watching the game anymore. He's proven wrong when the kid at bat bunts a ball down the third base line and Dean puts two fingers in his mouth to blow a piercing whistle as the kids on the bases take off. " _Nice_ , José!"

Steve wants to say _you weren't so well, the last time I saw you._ He wants to say _I've been worried about you._ He doesn't want to say _I haven't been able to help Bucky so please let me help you._

The umpire blows the whistle. The parents on the stands stand to start cheering, and the children on the field stream toward their dugouts. People start to stream down out of the stands, holding cast-off jackets and brown paper bags of popcorn, and Steve's jostled closer to Dean. Their shoulders bump, and Dean squares his. His chest expands like maybe he's about to say something. Then there's a shout of "Dean!" and the dark-haired pitcher runs up to them, his chin level with Steve's elbow. He smiles at Steve politely, and lets the expression break into a full grin when he looks at Dean. "Did you see that one in the seventh inning?"

"Thought you were gonna break that kid's bat," Dean says, and his grin matches the boy's as he ruffles his dark, sweaty hair.

"Right?!" The boy bounces in delight. Then he looks at Steve expectantly.

Steve holds out a hand. "I'm Steve," he says quickly. The child takes his hand easily, squeezes it tight and unhurried. "That was some pitching out there."

"Thanks," the kid says, and his polite smile becomes something like the grin he directed at Dean. "I'm Ben. Do you know Dean from before?"

Dean makes a sound. Steve's not sure what it is, but there's something warning about his expression. Steve wonders who the boy is, and what _before_ means.

"Sort of," he says. "Say, Ben, do you--"

One of the other boys in an orange team shirt like Ben's punches him in the shoulder as he passes. Ben makes a face at him, then gives Steve an apologetic glance and holds his helmet out to Dean with a pleading look. "Will you hold my helmet so we can use our winner tickets?"

"Sure thing, champ." Dean takes the helmet, and the boy runs off after his teammate. Steve watches him, and feels an ache for when Bucky used to throw the ball around with kids in the street in Brooklyn, as Steve watched from his upstairs window because even if any of the kids would have chosen him for their team, he wouldn't have been able to keep up with his asthma. He forces his eyes away, and sees Dean turning the helmet over in his hands, not unlike the way he did Captain America's helmet that first night they spent together.

For lack of anything better to say, Steve clears his throat. "Winner tickets?"

Dean tucks the helmet under his arm. "The kids on the winning team get to pick something free from the concession stand. Candy, or whatever."

Steve doesn't say anything, feeling out of his depth. There's something about the boy that makes Steve think he could be Dean's. He clears his throat. "He yours?"

"No."

"But you wish he was."

"Doesn't matter. Look, Cap--" Dean turns to face him, pulling his car keys out of his pocket and tapping his foot, "what do you need?"

Steve feels hurt, because he hadn't thought he came here expecting anything. But now that he's facing a night that's not going to have Dean in it because Dean's got a family to spend tonight, and all nights, with, he realizes that he did come here expecting something.

Expecting not just to find it, but to…

He sticks his hands back in his pockets. "Nothing," he says. "Just glad to see you're all right." He raises his hand in a semi-salute like the ones Dean has given him before, turning.

Dean catches his sleeve. Steve stops short, head and eyes flying back to him, but Dean's looking away, toward the concession stand.

"Look," he says lowly. "There's a motel. On East 88th, off I-19."

He pulls what looks like an old gas receipt out of his pocket and writes something on it with a pen from inside his brown corduroy jacket.

Steve takes it. "Your other, _other_ cell?" he quips when he sees the number, glancing up with a half smile.

Dean doesn't smile back. "Text me when you've got a room."

 

So then Steve's sitting in this room, which he got with two queen beds because he doesn't want to seem like--well. He just doesn’t.

All sorts of things go through his head, like what if Dean's got someone, he can't break that up. And there's Bucky, and the fact that Steve feels like he should be waiting for him, somehow, but how do you wait for someone who doesn't want you? The way that Bucky (the Winter Soldier)'s let himself be seen by Natasha, by Sam, even Barton; by everyone, practically, but Steve, and he just--

Three smart raps on the door.

Steve pulls his clenched fingers from his hair. "It's not locked," he calls, and winces when his voice comes out hoarse.

There's a moment, as if of hesitation, before the doorknob turns. Dean steps inside, still in the same tucked-in green shirt and light brown coat. A six-pack of beer hangs from his fingers, one bottle already missing. Dean's silver ring and bracelets are missing, too. Steve misses them the way he misses Bucky's sly smile, and the bump of his shoulder against Steve's, and the old rain-slicked streets of Brooklyn.

Dean sets the sweating beers on the cheap table. "Remembered halfway here that you can't get drunk."

"More for you, I guess."

"Not much fun being the only one hammered."

Steve studies him from his spot on the bed, elbows still braced on his knees, hands dangling between them. "You got a lotta practice with that?"

"Oh yeah." Dean pulls another bottle from the pack and comes over, sits on the bed across from Steve's as he takes a long pull. "Seems like all I do some days is drink."

The second sentence comes out mumbled, like an aside, or a confession he doesn't want heard but wants to count toward his penance anyway.

Steve looks away from the tremor of Dean's hands and the dark circles beneath his eyes. "Where's Ben?"

"With his mom."

"And you…?"

"They're used to me taking off." Dean's voice is too dull for shame. He takes another swallow.

"Dean…"

"Don't, Cap."

They sit in silence for a while longer. Dean gets up, and goes to get a second bottle.

Outside, the last light of dusk sinks into the darker violets and blues of night. Neither of them touch the lamp between the beds.

"Did you find him?" Dean says into the darkness. "That guy you were looking for last time."

Steve closes his eyes. After a minute, he shakes his head. "No."

"Mm." Dean watches him over the neck of the bottle. Then he stands up, and sets down the bottle to strip off his jacket and over shirt.

The excitement Steve should feel doesn't come. He just watches Dean's silhouette, in the dark, and feels dread heavy in his gut. He doesn't mean anything to Dean, isn't anything but a faceless body the same way he didn't mean anything to the Winter Soldier.

His hands come up to Dean's waist to stop him.

(They always seem to be coming and going at different times, trains leaving from and coming to the same station, and he winces away from the thought of trains, of falling.)

Dean straddles his lap anyway, taking a last swig of beer from his bottle before he tosses it into the corner. It shatters in the waste basket, a chorus of tiny broken noises that make Steve flinch, and Dean's breath across his face is warm and sour.

"This isn't right."

Dean laughs low into his face. "Nothing is."

"Then this isn't _helpful_ ," Steve says. His hands are still on Dean's hips. "Do you actually want this, Dean?"

"Don't want anything." Dean pushes his pelvis against Steve's stomach. He's soft, the only hardness from his belt buckle against Steve's ribs. "Make me. Make me want it, Cap."

Steve looks up at him. He can feel the desperation on his face, and Dean must be able to see it, too, because he starts to climb off of Steve.

Steve's hands tighten. Dean stops and looks down at him.

Then he eases down, slowly, and slants his mouth across Steve's. His lips ease open, and shut, around Steve's as his fingers curl restlessly open and shut around the fabric at Steve's shoulders. Just lips, for a moment, and then Steve's sucking on Dean's lower lip, catching it in his teeth and pulling off of it over and over until their mouth and hips are moving in rhythm, Steve tilting his head to a slightly different angle each time. He turns them, slowly, easing them down onto the slippery comforter, his hands braced behind Dean's shoulder blades to soften the impact even though they're on a bed, and Dean automatically parts his legs for Steve to lie between them.

He doesn't push up with his hips, though; isn't really hard yet that Steve can tell. But when Steve makes to pull back, Dean makes a sound, just a breath, and pulls him back, mouths pushing together again. And Steve holds him, wants to take care of him, to take care of him the way Bucky always took care of him that he's never been able to pay back, not since that single moment in Zola's compound.

Eventually, Steve's hand slides up from under Dean's back to his shoulder, moves to cup his right arm as he shifts on the mattress, finally pulling his mouth from Dean's to kiss down the corner of his mouth to the bolt of his jaw, and down his neck toward his shoulder. Dean stiffens, and curls slightly away, pulling his arm from Steve and cradling it, like it hurts to be touched. Steve pulls back, teeth tucking over his lip as he studies Dean, the way he has his eyelids clenched shut like he's imagining this is somewhere else, someone else.

Steve leans down and closes his teeth around Dean's nipple.

Dean arches up off the bed. Steve adds tongue, flicking it against the soft skin. He can feel something against his stomach now. Dean's eyes fly open, shocked and dark on his, and Steve stares back until recognition filters through them.

"Fuck," Dean rasps out. His hands come down but don't try to pull Steve's head away.

Steve releases his nipple from his teeth. "Pay attention."

It's his Captain voice, and Dean groans, covers his face with his elbow. Steve reaches up and pulls it away. He stares Dean down, eyebrows raised pointedly, until Dean nods.

Steve returns his mouth to Dean's chest. He mouths along his lowest rib, the ones curving above his flat stomach, without breaking eye contact. He drags his teeth down the other rib, and noses down the damp path he licks from Dean's sternum to the lifting tent of his jeans.

He pauses with his hands on Dean's belt buckle. Looks at him. Dean's flushed, has his lip caught beneath his teeth, red and swollen, his arm still where Steve pinned it on the pillow above him before.

"Do you want it?"

Dean's shredding his lip beneath his teeth. His hips move restlessly; Steve holds them down with a single hand, pinning them to the mattress.

"Do it." Dean's voice is barely audible. His eyes are clenched shut again. "C'mon."

Steve slowly sits up, dragging his front along Dean's as he pushes up to a kneeling position between Dean's legs.

"Do it yourself."

Dean's eyes open. He stares up at Steve for a minute.  Then he struggles up the bed to fumble off his pants and boots.

Steve watches him. His gaze is intent, so intent that Dean falters when he's down to nothing but his boxers, his thumbs hesitating when he hooks them under his waistband. He looks at Steve.

Steve looks back. "All the way," he says, not quite stern.

Dean shoves them down.

Steve doesn't give him time to be self-conscious. He motions at himself, and Dean rocks forward on his knees to get a hand inside Steve's civilian hoodie and push it off his shoulders. There's just a white t-shirt underneath, and Dean gets a hand to Steve's warm, muscled stomach underneath, pushing up the cotton. Steve lifts his arms to help Dean pull it over his head and then, once it's been slung to the floor, crawls forward over Dean. Dean goes backward with a sigh like relief, hands curling uncertainly, once, at his sides before Steve takes them in his own and places them on his belt. "Little further, soldier."

Dean's eyes squeeze shut again at the word. His lip is under his teeth; it goes white as he unbuckles Steve's belt blindly and slides it out of the loops of Steve's jeans. Unbuttons and unzips them, then, and Steve shifts slightly to give Dean enough room to pull the jeans from his legs, lowering his head at the same time to press his mouth to Dean's eyelids until he opens them.

He huffs out a breath at finding Steve's chin on top of his nose. Steve nudges it, almost nuzzling, and Dean makes a noise kind of like a growl, kind of like a laugh, and kind of like the intake of breath before someone starts to cry, and he twists his face away, pushes his hips up instead.

Steve bites down on Dean's lower lip, gentle but stern. Dean catches his breath and digs his hips back into the mattress. Steve finds Dean's hands with his own, sliding across the sheets. He pulls them up, above Dean's hand, gentle with Dean's bad right shoulder, and closes his fingers around the edge of the mattress. Then he slides down Dean's body until he's between his legs again, pinning Dean's hips with a forearm across them. The bony juts of Dean's hip digs into his wrist, the muscle just before his elbow. Dean makes a noise as Steve lowers his head.

Remembering how he pulled away from this last time, Steve changes his hold, gets his hands beneath Dean's ass and digs his fingers into the muscles, squeezing so Dean can't escape his mouth. Dean hisses again, but he's trying to plant his feet on the mattress, scrabbling for leverage to push up into Steve's mouth, and Steve growls. The vibration around him makes Dean claw at the edge of the mattress, breathing unevenly. The muscles of his stomach are taut and rigid; Steve flexes his fingers, and Dean goes even more tense, and comes.

 

After, when Dean has stopped panting in broken breaths that threaten every other moment to splinter into something else. After, he rolls onto his knees and fumbles for Steve.

Steve catches his hand and pulls it away. He may be alone, but Dean's not, Dean has that kid and the kid's mother.

"Cap," Dean says. His voice is low and so are his eyes. "C'mon."

Steve searches his face. He thinks (knows) Dean's only using him to hurt himself. But Dean's whispered "please" makes that all fall by the wayside. He kneels beside the edge of the bed and cups Dean's face, and kisses him softly. It's gentle, the way the thumb that Steve drags down to stroke Dean's vulnerable skin is gentle, slipping behind his balls to stroke gently there, not pushing, just resting against it. Until Dean starts to ride his fingers, pushing against them, and Steve arranges them both gently on the bed before pushing in.

Dean holds onto Steve's hip as if for dear life, pushes back as Steve pushes forward, like he could go deeper, deeper, like Dean wants to swallow him up and replace himself with Steve. Steve mouths soundless words into the back of his neck, the skin behind his ear, wordless soothings, encouragements. Dean grips him harder.

 

\- - -

 

_Steve says, "What do you need?"_

_(He knows soldiers, even if he's never quite managed to be one himself, no matter how hard he tried; knows soldiers need orders and maybe that's the only thing that lets them do what they do, the thought that it’s someone else ordering the finger on the trigger.)_

_He orders, "Tell me."_

_"Sam's gone."_

_Steve's thumb falters. He stares at Dean, and then he curves his arm around him. Wedges his forearm under Dean's head and cradles it, Dean's face to his neck, his mouth to Dean's forehead, and beneath him Dean tenses and shakes and, eventually, breathes._

 

\- - -

 

When he wakes the next morning, Dean's sitting on the edge of the bed. He's dressed, and his phone is in his hand.

He hands it to Steve. On the screen is a series of text messages from someone called **LISA**.

08:24 _what time are you getting home tonight?_

09:35 _do you need me to come pick you up?_

10:38: _call if you need me_

Steve closes the flip phone and hands it back to him. Dean rubs his thumb back and forth across the fingerprint-smudged case.

"I'm goin' back," he says abruptly.

Steve licks his lip. "Okay."

There's isn't much more to say than that. Steve slides out from under the covers and, after a moment of puttering at the bureau in the expectation (hope) of Dean saying something, he goes into the bathroom to shower. Stands under the lukewarm spray and feels the familiar dull ache between his ribs.

When he comes out, Dean's still there, perched on the edge of the unmade bed. Steve stops short. Then he recollects himself, pulling a neatly rolled shirt and pair of jeans out of his duffel bag and getting dressed. He shrugs his coat on over all of it and puts on his shoes, all as slowly as possible, watching Dean from the corner of his eye but not making eye contact; wanting, somehow, to drag out the bubble of _home_ , of bed sheets full of their scent and Dean's rumpled sleep hair and the early morning sounds of the world starting to wake up outside.

Finally he zips up his bag and slings it over his shoulder. Turns as Dean stands up. "I guess--"

Dean grips handfuls of his jacket and kisses him.

It’s short and close-mouthed. Just long enough for Steve to let his eyes close, his hand coming up to Dean's cheek. Dean pulls back. His eyes are still clouded, distant like he's trying to sink down, away. But his fingers stay curled in Steve's jacket for another few seconds before he lets go.

Neither of them say anything as they step outside. The sunlight has just come over the tree line, bright white sunlight bouncing off Steve's eyes, the glossy dew-moist black of Dean's car.

Dean unlocks it and slides into the driver's seat. Steve swings a leg over his bike. He pulls on his helmet as Dean pulls his door shut with a creak of metal.

Then he watches the reflection in his side mirror as the Impala pulls out and roars away.

 

 

 

 


End file.
